


Feeling It.

by deadlydecember1214



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Modern AU, Single Dad Paul, Work of fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:42:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25294135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlydecember1214/pseuds/deadlydecember1214
Summary: Paul is trying his best to raise his daughter, earn a living, and complete his education.John is an unplanned complication.
Relationships: Jane Asher/Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Paul McCartney, Maureen Cox/Ringo Starr, Pattie Boyd/George Harrison
Comments: 9
Kudos: 46





	1. Chapter One.

**Author's Note:**

> This is completely a work of fiction, not meant to offend anyone or imply anything about real people.
> 
> Strong language warning, if that offends you.
> 
> The song for this chapter is 'No More Looking Back' by The Kinks

**_Paul_ **

Paul knew he shouldn’t have tried cleaning.

His bedroom had been a mess for weeks now, what would another day have been? He should have just left well enough alone. He shouldn’t have touched a single fucking thing.

But, _no_ , George was having Pattie spend the fucking night so apparently that somehow meant Paul had to clean up _his_ room. He was still perplexed as to how his flatmate had connected the two issues. Is wasn’t like George would be fucking his girlfriend in Paul’s bed.

He cringed at the thought and tried vehemently to abolish it from his mind. He and George were close and they shared a lot but there was still a clear line.

Not that Pattie wasn’t gorgeous — she was— but Paul just didn’t... Well, he didn’t know exactly what it was that he didn’t do anymore but he did know that he had a bit too much on his plate to even notice attractive men and women.

Still, Paul knew that George — especially in the last two months — had put up with quite a lot of shite from him without too much whining. He knew he owed his friend a favor or two... or ten. So, when Georgie asked for him to ‘tidy up, like, for Pat’, Paul had begrudgingly tried to do it.

Now, he sat at his desk with an old, ratty t-shirt in his shaking hands and a million regrets weighing on his shoulders. Across the front were letters, spelling out, ‘Elvis Presley: Live’, all faded from use and age. It’d been his favorite t-shirt for a long time. He loved Elvis...

Then, when he’d moved out of his childhood home and into this flat with his best friend and his then-girlfriend, it had quickly become Jane’s favorite t-shirt.

Jane...

He was startled from his thoughts by an unhappy cry from the room next door. Muttering a curse word to himself, he tossed the shirt back on his desk chair and made his way toward the neighboring bedroom.

What had once been the tiny spare room in the apartment months ago had been transformed into a nursery, painted the exact shade of lavender that Jane had insisted on from the moment they’d been told their child would be a girl. On the wall above a dark wood cot, the name ‘Mary’ was sprawled in golden spindling calligraphy, curtesy of Pattie’s roommate, named Cynthia.

Through the bars, Paul spied a shock of dark hair squirming about and babbling discontentedly to the ceiling.

With a slight curve of his lip, he swept over to the crib and easily lifted the sweet girl into his arms. Paul still marveled a little every time he held her at how perfectly Mary seemed to fit into his arms, as if the genes he’d passed on to her had somehow encoded it to be like that.

“Ready to be awake now, little darling?” Brushing his lips over the soft skin of the baby’s forehead, Paul mumbled, “Don’t worry, Daddy’s got you.”

Mary calmed instantly, ending her own fussing by stuffing her chubby fist into her mouth as Paul made his way back to his own bedroom. Carefully propping the infant up against his pillow and securing her enough to be sure she wouldn’t roll off the bed, Paul waved to his daughter before going back about his tidying. Mary cooed in response and reached her fists out for her father.

As Mary continued her near constant stream of baby babble, Paul’s eyes flickered back to the damn t-shirt just sitting there on his chair. Reluctantly, as if it would poison him if he touched it, he plucked it back up between his thumb and finger.

Paul could remember how indignant he’d been to realize, upon moving in together, that he and his girlfriend could exchange nearly all their separate wardrobes. Jane had laughed and assured him that it was absolutely adorable to her, but he’d still scowled. For fuck’s sake, she fit in his button-ups and he fit in her goddamn jeans...

But it had always been the Elvis t-shirt that she took most often. She’s said it was the article of clothing he’d been wearing when they met.

He’d rolled his eyes at that; he’d loved the girl to death but how could she possibly remember that? Paul himself couldn’t recall much of their fates first meeting — he’d only been 14 — and didn’t really believing that she did either.

Still, Paul had let his hazel eyes linger on the way her bright red hair cascaded over those fading letters, ‘Elvis Presley: Live’. He could even remember the way the soft cotton fabric had stretched over her swelling stomach in the later months of her pregnancy, when she’d started wearing it every night to sleep, how soft the fabric had felt on his face when he’d tucked his face against her back.

But all that was over now.

And logically, Paul knew it was just a fucking t-shirt. _His_ fucking t-shirt, at that, _not_ Jane’s. He shouldn’t be thrown off by finding his own belongs in his bedroom. He guessed he’d just thought that since he hadn’t seen it in weeks... Well, he’d just thought that maybe Jane might have taken it with her.

 _You’re a fucking idiot, McCartney,_ He mused silently to himself, _Why would she take your stupid, ratty, old t-shirt with her? She don’t want to remember you. She left to get away from you._

With a resigned sigh, he stood and contemplated tossing the shirt completely.Next, he thought about checking to see if it still held any of Jane’s sunflower perfume that she’d taken to wearing once she’d gotten into acting school.

Instead, he threw it in his hamper to go to the wash. Maybe it was pointless to hang on to the memories but sometimes Paul just couldn’t help himself. Besides, it had been his favorite shirt before it’d been her’s. And yeah, maybe he didn’t feel quite ready to let it go but could he really be blamed?

Two months didn’t easily erase six years.

Shutting the hamper, Paul gave the room a quick glance and nodded to himself. The space resembled its natural state more than it had in a long time. There were no more clothes tossed about, no cloths stained from spit-up, no textbooks or notebooks messily bookmarked with a pacifier, no old unfinished baby bottles or uncapped highlighters. It nearly looked like it had when he’d kept it clean regularly, instead of at request, back in the ‘before’ days.

“What do you think, Mary?” He asked, settling his gaze on his daughter.

The infant turned her big blue eyes to him upon recognizing her name and gave a single, “Eh!”

Grinning, the weight on his shoulders from finding his old t-shirt lifted a bit. Maybe he’d kept the shirt... but he’d cleaned the room and Mary was, as far as he could tell, proud of him. Five-month-olds could be hard to read.

Ruffling his hair to make it fall flat against his forehead again, Paul swung his daughter into his arms and made his way out to the living room. He was relieved to see his roommate was still not home from work, as he settled Mary into the high chair next to his usual seat at the kitchen island. Paul felt a bit guilty for his happiness at his friend’s absence but he just knew George would take one look at him and ask him what was wrong. It would be fucking pointless, too, because George knew exactly what was wrong and knew Paul wouldn’t want to talk about it anyway.

It was humiliating at this point, honestly, still being so hung up on one bird. But then again, it wasn’t just some bird... It was _Jane_.

Jane, who was now long gone and moving on, as they say, and Paul knew that. He’d come to accept it, sometimes even figured Jane was right in leaving him. She wanted more than she could have with him, what choice had the poor girl really had?

He could understand that.

But then Paul grabbed an empty baby bottle from the counter and glanced back at Mary, who was gumming at her fingers and following him with her eyes, and shook his head.

Nah, actually, he didn’t understand.

If she had just left him, well, things would be different but she hadn’t just walked away from him, had she? She’d turned her back on her own goddamn baby, too. Jane had been wrong.

He knew all that, ‘course, repeated it to himself ten times a day but it still felt like a socking to the gut to think of her.

Two months ago—right after she’d packed and gone—Jane had been all Paul could even think of. For days after he’d come home to that empty closet and that damn letter, all that had run through his muddled and confused mind was _JaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJane_. He’d think he heard her call for him or he’d start making food for an extra person who wasn’t there anymore. It had even hurt to look into Mary’s eyes, the very same shade of her mum’s.

But luck would have it that all of that got better with time.

Now, he could almost forget he missed her until something, like an old t-shirt or one of her favorite songs on the radio, would hit him in the face and he’d think about throwing up or screaming. He would look at his phone, he would contemplate calling her—just to hear her voice—and then he would stubbornly refuse to let himself do it. If Jane could move on from him and Mary, he and Mary could move on from Jane.

So instead, he’d find his baby wherever she was—in her cot or in someone else’s arms— and hold her tight. He would count her toes and fingers, like he had the day she was born, lean in close to hear the little pitter-patter of her heart in her chest, listen to her breathing and her babbling. Mary grounded him, reminded him that his priorities laid with her now and nowhere else.

Jane wasn’t his once in a lifetime, as he’d spent so long believing. She was now just a part of his past, one he was even thankful for. Having had Jane once upon a time meant having Mary and so Paul would make himself be okay with that. He didn’t have much of a choice, after all.

Ten minutes or so later the door to the flat flung open and George came hustling in, about ten bags of groceries in his arms. Paul quirked an eyebrow from his perch at the kitchen island, eyeing Mary as she held up her own bottle, but made no move to help.

Nearly dropping everything to the floor, Geo managed to get to the counter across from his flat mate and slumped down in exhaustion.

“Fuckin’...hate...havin’...to...climb...those bloody...steps,” The boy managed between pants.

Paul smirked and shrugged, “They’ve only been telling us they're gonna fix the lift since we moved in, Georgie, give ‘em another year or so.”

George shot him one of his signature scowls. “Piss off, McCartney. You didn’t even fucking help me, prat.”

“I was...” Paul trailed off, glancing around for some excuse before shrugging and meeting his friend’s waiting stare, “I was feeding Mary. Figured you had it handled.”

George rolled his eyes and gestures to the infant suckling contently, “Kid seems to be managing well enough on her own.”

Looking back over at his daughter, Paul felt the quirk of a proud smile curl the corners of his lips and let out a little laugh, “She is getting the hang of it, ain’t she?”

It was so odd, the things that impressed Paul these days. Two years ago, he’d have been just as proud to have successfully won a drinking contest or have rolled a joint perfectly and now here he was, dotting because his baby had figured out how to hold her bottle on her own... Fuck had happened to his life?

Seeming to be thinking the same thing, George huffed and turned back toward his groceries but Paul, having known the other so long, had spotted the glint of endearment in his friend’s eye. That was George for you, always playing the part of a grump but underneath one of the most genuine blokes there was. Besides, the bugger was probably just as excited as Paul for Mary.

“When’s Pat gonna come ‘round?” Paul asked, leaning his elbows on the island as he observed George shuffle about the kitchen. It was pretty shit and cramped but for two young men living on their own with baby still on a liquid diet, it did fine. Jane had hated it and Pattie wasn’t particularly fond either.

George took the jug of milk that had previously been sitting in the fridge, sniffed it, grimaced and set it aside, before answering, “She’s not coming ‘round till later. We’re meeting her at the pub with some others and then she’ll be coming home with us.”

“We? Us?” Paul asked, the whine in his tone clearly evident.

His best friend narrowed his eyes on him, a determined look in his dark eyes, “Yeah, _us_ , Paul. You haven’t gone out since—“ George’s eyes trailed to Mary and Paul flashed him a look of warning that was clearly just daring him to say the wrong thing.

Paul got downright mean when someone dared to hint at him being better off without his baby. George figured it was half from his father’s drillings before Mary’d even been born about how Paul was just too young to be a father and the other half from Jane actually expressing that very sentiment in her farewell letter.

“Well, like, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Well, yeah, it’d been a while. It’d been... whenever Jane had dragged him away from his textbooks last, he guessed. Before the baby was born... Probably a few weeks before they’d even riddled out that Mary was on the way... so, well over a year then?

Something along those lines, Paul supposed.

Jane had loved to go out, to have fun, and Paul had loved Jane, finding the pub scene decently entertaining. They’d gone out nearly every free night they had, sometimes with a group or sometimes just the two of them like any normal Uni students.

Then, when the home pregnancy tests had come back with pink lines, that lifestyle had been put on the back burner. Now, without Jane to gravitate towards, mountains of assignments due and single fatherhood to face, Paul didn’t think going out sounded all that appealing anymore.

He shrugged, noncommittally, because there was no point in giving George more satisfaction in being right for once. Shaking his head, Paul made a noise of frustration, “Well, so what? I got Mary—“

“—I already asked Mike and you’re off duty until midnight.”

“I’m her Da, George, I’m never ‘off duty’,” Paul rolled his eyes, using air quotations, “Besides, I don’t want—“

“You’re bloody well going, Paul!” George snapped. “It’s gonna be the whole lot of us. It’ll be great!”

“Like who?” Paul asked, scrunching up his nose. The idea of the ‘whole lot’ didn’t tickle his fancy the way it seemed to get George.

George paused to give Paul another exasperated look, “Me and Pats, obviously. Ritchie and Mo. Oh! And we’re gonna meet Ivan there cuz he’s working tonight,” He ended in a shrugged, “He can work us out a discount.”

“Discount alcohol,” Paul mused, sarcastically, “My favorite.”

Beside him, Mary finished off her meal and let her bottle crash to her tray. George jumped and nearly dropped a carton of eggs while Paul just grinned at her, running his hand over her silky hair before taking the bottle back.

Something about having a kid made a person a lot less sensitive to loud, startling noises. Maybe it was the screaming at all hours of the night?

Pulling down his sleeve, he wiped some formula from the baby’s cheek and bopped her tiny nose, getting up to rinse the bottle out.

“That’s fucking disgusting,” George muttered, “I mean, like, use a cloth or something! Not your bloody sleeve!”

Paul laughed, “Ah, piss off.” Setting the clean bottle on the rack to dry, he turned back to his best friend. “And Mikey’s _okay_ with Mary duty?”

“Told you already he is,” Geo muttered before clearing his throat and saying louder, “Oh, go on, Paul! Just come with us! Just for a few hours!”

Mary broke in with a loud squeal, slamming her chubby hands down into her tray, “Bah!”

George pointed to the baby and raised an eyebrow, “I think Mary’s agreeing with me, mate.”

Rolling his eyes, Paul sighed and dropped his arms from their position folded over his chest, “Fine. I’ll go if it’ll bloody well please you.”


	2. Chapter Two.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introduction of John in this universe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is completely a work of fiction, not meant to offend anyone or imply anything about real people. The song for this chapter is ‘Ain’t No Rest For The Wicked’ by Cage The Elephant

**_John_ **

“John!” A voice yelled, accompanied by a hard smack on his bedroom door, “Get up, you lazy bugger! Nearly 2 in the afternoon, Jesus!”

Somewhere beside him, John felt another body stirring among his sheets. He turned his head and cracked his eyes open to a head of long, curly blond hair and a slender figure. He vaguely recalled the night before, it was just the bird he’d managed to tempt home.

The girl groaned, pushing herself up, “Is it really two already?”

John blinked and looked at his alarm clock across from her, “Uh, quarter till?”

“Shit,” The blond hissed, throwing herself from the bed to begin gathering and throwing on her discarded clothes. “I missed my first two classes!”

Huh, she was in school still... John briefly wondered what she was studying, what she wanted to do with her future? And then his mind turned to his nicotine craving and he remembered that he didn’t care... would she think he cared? Fuck, he hoped not. Emotional birds were a drag to deal with on top of a hangover.

He busied himself with sitting up and lighting a cigarette, trying to sift through his memories for the girl’s name and praying she wouldn’t try to talk to him too much. The only girl he didn’t really mind morning-after chats with was not the girl in front of him. His chest clenched a just a second in something similar to guilty before he blow if off with an exhale of smoke. _That girl,_ the somewhat special one, couldn’t get hurt if she never found out.

Looking at this girl in the morning light, with her make up smudged, hair knotted in the back and a pinched face, John was not all that impressed with himself. He’d pulled much better. Hell, _Cynthia_ was prettier than this bird and Cyn was about as plain as paper to him these days. John thought for a moment that he should have just gone ‘round her place last night. A good boyfriend would have. But he’s wasn’t good at really anything, ‘sept maybe guitar and Cynthia bloody well knew that, didn’t she?

The bird that was not Cynthia glanced up at him to give a coy smile, “So, you’ll call me, right?”

_Fuck no_ , he thought but had the grace to not say aloud. Instead, John cleared his throat and shrugged, “Look, uh...”

“Holly,” The blond supplied, her smile dropping.

Unfazed, he continued, “Holly, me girlfriend might not like that, so probably not.”

Holly looked stricken, “You... you have a _girlfriend_?”

Before John could answer, there was another slam on his door.

“Bleedin’ hell, Lennon!”

“Oh, fuck off, Sutcliffe!” John yelled back before taking a drag from his cigarette. He turned back to Holly and just shrugged. Yeah, technically he had a girl already. One that was easier to put up with than most others and yet still never enough for John, hence all the other temporary ones.

Scoffing in disgust, Holly rolled her eyes and finished zipping up her dress, picking up her heels, “You’re a swine!”

John honestly couldn’t agree more.

He gave her an apologetic smile and another small shrug. Holly huffed and threw the door open, shoving past Stuart on the other side. The lad watched her go before spinning ‘round to look at his best mate while leaning on the doorframe.

“Fun night, then?”

“It was alright,” John chuckled, getting up and throwing on a t-shirt to pair with his boxers and socks. “Had better.”

“Speaking of fun nights, we still going out tonight?” Stuart asked. “Because I thought you worked?”

“And?” John laughed, stubbing out his cigarette. “Only get the free booze if I’m behind the bar, y’know?”

“I highly doubt that’s the pub’s policy, Johnny,” Stuart commented with a sigh, “Cynthia’s meeting us there, right?”

John nodded and flicked his hair out of his eyes, purposely playing ignorant to Stu’s pointed question as he moved past the other lad toward the kitchen for a drink of water. His mouth tasted like whiskey still and was drier than the Sahara, plus his head was pounding something fierce, “Said she was, least.”

Stuart grinned, “Ah, that’s great! Cyn’s alright!”

Cynthia was alright, John guessed. She was pretty with a smile that even managed to make his lips curl. Blond these days, too, John’s favorite and much more suiting than her once natural mousy brunette. Some of his mates thought she had horse teeth but John had never noticed. But above all, Cyn wasn’t a complete fucking idiot. She actually had a brain, talking to her never dug under John’s skin the way it did with any other birds. It was this unique quality that had made her the only steady relationship he’d ever even attempted.

Attempted being the key word there, seeing as he hadn’t managed yet to stop himself from continuously stepping out on her.

John simply shrugged, taking a drink of his water. He set the glass down and went about opening cabinets in search of something for his headache.

“Oh, piss off, Lennon,” Stuart laughed, “You don’t suffer fools. Wouldn’t still be shagging her if you didn’t like her.”

“Aw, Stu, I’m touched by you’re assurance in my character so as to not stoop as low as to—“

The other cut John off when a raised hand, “Oh, no, no, no, don’t get me wrong, Johnny. You’d definitely stoop that low— I mean you still do with other girls all the time, don’t you? You’re just smart enough to know Cyn’s a bird worth keeping ‘round.”

John examined his glass of water, having found the pain reliever now in his hand, “So, I’m an bastard... but I’m a cunning one?”

“John Lennon,” Stuart gestured the air like he was seeing some billboard before him on the kitchen cabinets, “Cunning bastard!” Dropping his arms, he flashed his best friend a grin, “Got a certain ring to it, doesn’t it?”

John laughed, gulping down the pills and downing the rest of his glass, “Piss off, Stu.” He flickered his eyes away, avoiding his friend’s gaze, “And just so ye know, I don’t like Cynthia. I love her.”

“Sure ye do, Johnny.” Stuart sighed, suddenly sobering. Neither of them spoke the rest of the sentence but they both knew...

_Sure ye do, Johnny, just not enough to try and treat her right._

John sighed and began to bounce on his feet to rid himself of the uncomfortable energy rising up in his chest. “Got hours before we got to go anywhere, though, so I’ll be in me room if that’s already with you, mate?”

Stu rolled his eyes, “Yeah, whatever, Johnny.”

Once back in his bedroom, alone in his safe space, John sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He hated feeling... heavy— he refused to call it what it really was: guilt. And he always did when Cynthia was brought up.

He loved her... he did! He just got so fucking bored with her sometimes! He longed for excitement, for the thrill of the flirtation, the constant tug of war, the competition. Cynthia didn’t give him any of that anymore.

John could remember when she’d first caught his eye, over two years ago sitting up straight as a ruler in the row in front of him in one of his various art classes. He liked art but had majored in Political Science for Mimi; hadn’t stopped him from taking a few electives though. Cynthia had been a year ahead, older and wiser and completely uninterested in his immature games. Maybe that had been her appeal, her disinterest and indifference. She’d been work then, hard to get.

She was such a prude, too. That pretty little nose of her’s had always seemed to turn up at the mere sight of him and she’d just rolled her eyes at any of his advances. She’d been engaged to some bloke back in her hometown, some sophisticated git who was just perfect as could be apparently. She’d blatantly told him so when he’d tried asking her out, shutting him down without even a hint of remorse. His pride had been wounded at the time but his want to win her had only grown.

And John was good at the game he played, an expert at the chase, and he’d seen the lingering looks Cynthia still gave him, saw her flush bright red when he gave his attention to other girls and how her lips twitched when he sent a compliment her way. Not long after, word spread around the university that Cynthia Powell had broken off her engagement and was single as could be.

John made sure that wasn’t true for long.

She finally agreed to go out with him to the pub were he worked and the rest was history. Cynthia was the only girl John could stand on a regular basis, the only girl he called his girlfriend, the only girl he kept coming back to. He didn’t really know why, she was just _Cyn_ and he actually wanted to have a claim on her. Being with her wasn’t quite as frustrating as being with others. She had enough of a brain and a bite to be at least a little stimulating.

Still, John knew what people said around them, what they whispered to Cynthia nearly everyday, what they thought.

_He’s nothing but trouble._

_You deserve better._

_He’ll never really be faithful_.

And history would prove all them right. He didn’t deserve Cynthia. He wasn’t an idiot, he knew that. He cheated on her, he snapped at her, he treated her like crap most days... but for some reason she stuck around. No one else, besides Mimi, Stu, and Pete, stuck around for John. Fuck, his own mother and father had had little to nothing to do with him since he was just 5— But Cynthia hadn’t left him yet. He was... grateful to her for that. So, John had decided he would keep her for as long as she’d stay; so far that was a bit over 2 years now.

Glancing at his dresser, his dark eyes were drawn to the framed photograph sitting atop it. Cynthia had given it to him on their last anniversary — he’d gotten her a box of condoms. It was a picture of them two of them, sitting side-by-side on the couch in his flat. He was reading, paying her no mind, and she was gazing at him with a small, adoring smile playing on her lips like he was something to be admired and awed by. She looked in love... he looked bored.

Again, he felt heavy and groaned in frustration and he reached out to set the frame face down. He didn’t feel like thinking too much anymore. He wanted to stop thinking.

John sighed and swallowed, going over to pick up his guitar and rid himself of that stupid fucking weight in his chest.

Music had always been John’s escape, even before he could make it. He’d spent hours listening to all the great classics back in his bedroom at Mimi’s growing up. The Isley Brothers, Arthur Alexander, and the greatest of all, Elvis Presley; they were practically gods to him as a boy. He’d practiced till his fingers bleed trying to learn their songs, eventually trying to write his own.

Tuning the guitar, John leaned back again his headboard and began to strum. Strum away all the buzzing, screaming thoughts in his head, calming him mind if only for just a single fucking second. He wished he could share this part of himself, his music, with someone. Wished he could make Cynthia or Stu or anyone, really, understand the way the music felt in his chest, in his blood and his bones.

But that was a connection he’d given up on making a long time ago.

Stu played bass, Pete was alright at percussion and drums, fuck, even Cynthia knew a bit of piano but none of them felt like he did. Music was a lifeline to John. He couldn’t be without it, none of them’d ever gotten that.

Hours later, the boys were dressed and ready to go. The other inhabitants of the flat, another long-time friend, Pete, and Stu’s bitch-of-a-girlfriend, Astrid, had thrown themselves together as well.

Pete had had to style his blond hair three times from John ruffling it each time he’d only just gotten it right and he was wearing a sports jacket, a flannel and jeans. Stuart had put on the clothes Astrid had laid out for him, a navy sweater and tight dark blue jeans. John had rolled his eyes upon seeing Astrid in a matching shade of sequined tank-top and shorts. They were fucking _matching_ these days, God help him.

John himself had simply tossed on the first things he’d found in his dresser that smelled like laundry soap and not sweat. So, basically a plain black t-shirt with a white collar, ripped gray jeans, and his favorite leather jacket with his aviator sunglasses. In his pocket were his Buddy Holly inspired prescriptions for once he got to work.

Emerging from his room, he was assaulted by Pete snatching his shades from his face, “Sun’s down, ye look like an asshole.”

John smirked and plucked the shades back, sliding him back on to his face, “I am an asshole, Pete. Remember?”

The two young men made their way to the living room, purposely shoving and banging into each other just for a laugh. They found Astrid standing on her toes, straightening Stu’s sweater. Her eyes narrowed on John as he enter her field of vision.

“You look homeless,” She commented in her heavy German accent

“And you look easy,” John shot back back only to receive a look of warning from Stuart which he ignored. Stu was his best mate, sure, but he wouldn’t put up with the little blond terror’s bullshit for even him.

Astrid scoffed and upturned her pretty little button nose.

She was fit, sure, with her slender build curved in all the right places, soft features, and pixie cut hair. That part of Stu’s infatuation with her John could understand, but _fuck_ , the personality and attitude on her was the ultimate turn off. Had she been John’s pull, he have kicked her to the curb the next morning, not begged her to come live with him and his mates as Stuart had done.

John supposed that was why Stu had Astrid, who he hardly sent a second a part from, and he had Cyn, who had her own life and priorities that kept her off John’s back. He didn’t see the appeal in all the bullshit people spouted about ‘sharing a life’. Independence got you fucked over a lot less.

“Alright, alright, you two,” Stuart broke in, running his hands down his girlfriend’s arms until he intertwined his fingers with hers. “That’s enough. Let’s just go, yeah?”

Astrid grinned, nodding and pecking his knuckles, John rolled his eyes, and Pete shrugged while rubbing the back of his neck.

Stuart took that as an affirmative.

The pub, called The Cavern, was only two blocks over from the flat. They regularly walked there, all too cheap to pay fare, even on the bus. Astrid got all whiny about the area and how it wasn’t safe for them but it wasn’t like she had much other choice, just as poor as the rest of them. Instead, she just clung to Stuart along the way like a bloody octopus. John and Pete walked ahead of the couple, playfully bantering with one another.

John had been forced to to take his sunglasses off upon stepping into the twilight of outside, being even less able to see than normal. He was feeling bitter as he slide on his prescription lenses, Pete chuckling beside him.

Reaching out, he roughly shoved his mate, “Sod off, Shotton, no one fucking asked you.”

Behind them, Stuart called, “Oi, Johnny, stop being so damn sensitive, would ye? Just glasses, mate!”

John shot him a glare before grabbing Pete’s arm to help him right himself, “Primadonna, you are, son. Toppling like that.”

“Arsehole, you are, John. Shoving people like that.” Pete shot back but there was a grin on his lips. John smirked and any tension instantly defused.

Between Stu and Pete, John could be kept mostly in line. They all knew how easily he could fly off the handle, even John himself knew, so they all worked to make sure the lad wasn’t poked at or prodded too much. John had already spent a few nights in jail for throwing fists around when another drunk at the pub said just the wrong thing and neither Pete nor Stu had the money for bail at the moment.

The only option was just to try and keep Johnny boy out of trouble.

**Author's Note:**

> Did you like this? Would you read more?


End file.
